


The Painted Lady

by ink_magpie



Series: Daisies for the Queen of the Dead [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 19th Century, Circus, Corsetry, Exhibitionism, F/M, London, London Underground, Painted Lady - Freeform, Rating: M, Secret Identity, Tattoos, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Victorian, Whitechapel - Freeform, f/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-02 14:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19200367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ink_magpie/pseuds/ink_magpie
Summary: "I'm a wild garden.  I'm tangled, unyielding and thorny."London.  1883.  Sally Askew is a lady, born into a world of privilege - of silk petticoats, parlour games and proposals - raised under the purist, severe gaze of her father, Lord Askew.Ivy Stunner is a freak.  Every night she performs in The Distinguished Dr Harland Featherstone's Exhibition of Human Absurdities in a dark corner of Whitechapel, shedding her petticoats and displaying her painted skin to the crowd.Two lives, one woman; The Painted Lady.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go again! Another short(ish) story. So, I came across this very old photograph on Pinterest of a Victorian woman wearing a veil, a corset and displaying a full sleeve of tattoos on both her folded arms. It was just too weird and raised so many questions and - just like that - my imagination ran wild. I can't resist a bit of Victorian London... ;-)

_This_ is my favourite part, and I wait for it from behind the curtain.

For most it’s the money; the cold, silver shillings are always so soothing as they’re pressed into the palm.  They’re a penny pie and a couple of gritty, salty oysters, and a hot bath instead of a cold one from the washhouse on the corner of Whitechapel High Street.  They’re a new petticoat, or an undershirt.  They’re enough to keep the landlord happy – for a while.  For _most_.

But this is _my_ favourite part.  The moment that I step out from behind the mottled, velvet curtain and I draw every eye in the crowd.   They’re wondering what my secret is; what surprise I’m hiding beneath the silk robe I’ve wrapped my body in like a gift.  A third tit, perhaps.  Or a dead twin hanging from my hip.  I know that I shouldn’t – that it’s a sin – but as I peer through the holes in my black, lace veil I enjoy the crowd’s curious gaze. 

I cross the splintered stage-boards and step into the light of the limes; I can feel their heat across my bare legs and ankles.  I loosen the belt of my robe and play with the tassels as The Doctor begins tonight’s performance.

'…Und now, ladies und gentleman,’ he announces as I stop and stand beside him, ‘For your interest, I present to you a young lady I found on my travels while I was studying the tribes of the Sandwich Islands.’

I try not to roll my eyes.  He loves the sound of his own voice; I’ve even caught him practicing once or twice to get it just right.

‘She is the daughter of an English nobleman – a relative of your Queen Victoria, no less – who was sent to become governor of those islands.  But, disaster struck when their boat was shipwrecked in a hurricane.  Both father und daughter washed up on the shore of The Forbidden Isle – under the mercy of the bloodthirsty Kaua Tribe.’

The crowd gasps and murmurs.

The Doctor circles me. ‘They _executed_ her father but the chief – as he looked at her pale skin, blue eyes und fair hair – he took pity on her, seeing in her the snow goddess Poli’ahu,’ he says, brushing his fingers through the waves of blonde hair reaching down my back as he strolls behind me.  He sweeps them over my shoulder.  ‘…The tribe worshipped her for a whole year, preserving her virtue but painting in indelible ink every inch of her snow-white skin from nape to navel with the flowers und vines of their island home… until _I_ rescued her und brought her safely home to England…’

It’s a rotten lie, of course.  A whole tapestry woven miraculously from a single thread; the only ship I’ve ever sailed on is the steamer that sails the muddy waters between London Bridge and Limehouse, and as much as I wish that my father were dead – skinned and cooked in a pot by cannibals – he’s still very much alive.  I doubt there’s a single flower on my body that is native to The Sandwich Islands, and as for the Doctor?  The Eminent and Distinguished Doctor Harland Featherstone, Professor of Anatomy and Anthropology and Collector of Human Absurdities – isn’t even a real doctor, let alone a German one.  He bought his tweed morning coat and waistcoat second hand on Petticoat Lane, his pocketwatch came from a Pawn Shop in Spitalfields – the scratched silver case engraved with the name Harland Featherstone.  He even grew a beard to look more distinguished, and wears a pair of spectacles on the tip of his nose that he picked up off the floor of an omnibus.

He stops in front of me, his dark eyes sliding along the shoulders of my silk dressing gown.  ‘…Now, reunited with her old life of society balls und banquets she must hide her identity und cover the marks of her captivity,’ he explains, gesturing to my lace mask. 

I lift my chin and my eyes follow him as he disappears behind me.

‘Und so, the blooms will remain concealed beneath her clothes und corset – hidden from those around her,’ he continues almost in a whisper as he rests his hands on my shoulders, ‘until they are unlaced by her future husband.’

There’s a whistle and a howl from somewhere in the crowd.  I close my eyes and breathe in through my nose.

The Doctor smirks slightly and – for a moment, _just_ a moment – he drops character.  ‘Brings a _whole_ new meaning to deflowering, don’t it?’ he jokes, unable to help himself.

I can tell he’s enjoying himself because he’s veering from the script; he’s embellishing and adding new details to please the crowd, to please himself.  I roll my shoulders slightly, trying to unseat his hands – but they’re hot and heavy, the blunt tips of his fingers creeping beneath the silk lapels.

‘Und so, Ladies und gentlemen, I give to you… _Miss_ Ivy Stunner, The Painted Lady!’ he announces as I drop my hands and allow him to strip the robe from my shoulders like an artist unveiling a sculpture.

That brief moment of silence before the crowd’s reaction is so loud to me, and my skin prickles as the robe is removed.  I stretch my arms out wide – wide like a bird – and then wait. 

They don’t really notice my tattoos right away – not really.  It’s my lack of clothing they notice first; I’m wearing nothing more than some ivory underpinnings – a satin corset, camisole and combinations – and it’s shocking in a world where a bare ankle is enough to scandalise.  Next, they’ll probably notice that the colour of my skin is a little… _off_ ; it’s more peacock feathers than flesh in hues of green, blue and black from my clavicles to the silver bracelet dangling from my wrist.  It’s only when they jostle towards the stage and squint that they finally notice the rambling pink roses blooming across my chest from shoulder to shoulder – the drooping petals and leaves lost beneath the lace edge of my corset – and the vines of ivy creeping and curling down my back and arms, interspersed with various wild blooms.  I turn my body and bend like a ballerina as I display them to the crowd.

I’m a wild garden; I’m tangled, unyielding and thorny.

The Doctor waits for the crowd to settle.  He smiles as he reaches into his trouser pocket and plucks out a pound.  He holds it up for the crowd to see.  ‘A pound for the man, or woman, who can guess correctly how many different flowers there are blooming across Ivy’s skin,’ he challenges, glancing at me with cold, calculating eyes.

This is new.  A little sweetener from the showman to the crowd who’ve each paid a shilling to see the show.  For most of them a pound is a fortnight’s worth of hard work and rarely lingers in the pocket for long in a city where landlords are greedy, and gin is both necessary and cheap.

I settle my hands on my hips as the room becomes noisy with various numbers between two and two hundred being hurled at the stage.

‘Not even close!  Wrong!  _Closer_!  Not quite, sir!’ he replies, pointing from person to person with the coin tucked tightly in his fist.

He doesn’t know how many flowers I have painted on my body; no one knows.  He’s simply plucked a number out of the air and is waiting for someone to guess it – which they do, eventually.

‘Twenty- _seven_!  Correct, madam!’ he cheers as he flicks the coin into the crowd and chuckles as she catches it.  ‘There are precisely twenty- _seven_ genus of florae painted on Miss Stunner’s body.  I’ve counted every single one of them myself.’

I scoff quietly behind my veil.

Outrage from the front row.  ‘Prove it!  How we ought to know you’s telling the truth?’ a man shouts, pointing.  ‘How do we know how many she’s hiding under that corset?’

There’s a mixed response from the crowd; some are silent, some are sniggering, all are simmering.

The Doctor glances at me and shrugs his lips.  ‘They’ve got a point,’ he mutters before he clears his throat and then projects The Doctor’s voice to the eager crowd.  ‘…Miss Stunner, if you would be so kind as to show the audience your… _secret_ garden,’ he says, then waits.

I glare at him. 

The gaze of the crowd is too hot – hotter than the limes – and I can’t bear it.  I take a step back, then turn on my heel and storm behind the curtain and back into the cold shadows.  I collide with a wall of muscle; a sweat-stained vest and second-hand trousers a size too big held up with black braces. 

My eyes trace the copper hairs growing along his muscled forearms, chest and chin and I scowl as I stumble backwards.  I look away, then tut.  ‘ _Move_.’

He frowns, and his brown eyes narrow as he sucks on a cigarette – the end glowing in the dark.  There's blood staining his knuckles.  He takes his time and slowly exhales – his chest shrinking slightly – before he turns his body and lets me pass.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going dark - consider yourself warned ;-)

In my dressing room, I begin to bury Ivy beneath layers of whalebone and modest, black silk with the help of Mrs Stride.  She was a ladies maid in another life – _once_ – before middle age settled around her hips and the black hair growing over her lips made her distasteful to her mistress _(but a curiosity to the crowd)_ ; she knows how to lace a corset and has strong, nimble fingers able to roughly scoop up Ivy’s wild, blonde curls and knot and plait them into Sally’s fashionable updo.  My dressing room is nothing more than a broom cupboard backstage – large enough only for a chair, a cracked mirror propped against the wall and a gas lamp set precariously beside it.  My bustle takes up most of the room, and we wriggle around the small space like beetles under a rock.

Mrs Stride is pinning my hat in place when there’s a knock on the door.  She’s a perfectionist and waits until the hat is perfectly placed before she smiles and nods at me, muttering a brief, ‘There you go, your ladyship,’ before she swivels in the tight space and opens the door.

The gas light from the corridor fills the cupboard, as does the Doctor whose thick frame fills the doorway.  He stands there with his hands in his trouser pockets, shirt sleeves rolled up and his waistcoat an oil slick of green and black – like the abdomen of a blow fly.  ‘Beat it, Beardo,’ he says, nodding his head to the side.

Mrs Stride immediately scurries away, almost stumbling over the long legs of Flynn, who’s leaning against the wall of the corridor just behind the Doctor, puffing on a cigarette.

‘…I was just leaving,’ I tell them both, my eyes moving from one to the other.

The Doctor raises his dark eyebrows.  He removes a hand from his pocket and brushes it over his greying beard, ‘Gee, it’s like a magician’s box trick; one woman goes in and another comes out,’ he says, tilting his head as he stares at the frills of black silk in front of him.  He holds my gaze, ‘…I’d just _love_ to see how you do that.’

I fold my arms.  ‘What do you want, Harry?’

His eyes are set black within his spectacles as he steps closer.  ‘I wanna know what happened out there,’ he says, and his voice is soft – _too_ soft; if you didn’t know him then you’d think he cared.  ‘…Why d’you flake?’

I glare at him.  ‘You _know_ why.’

He shrugs his lips.

This is the real man behind The Doctor.  He’s no professor, no German quack.  He’s just plain old Harry Black; a gambler, a crook and a showman from Wisconsin.

I tut and sigh.  I haven’t got time for this; I need to get back before I’m missed.  ‘Look, if you want to turn this into a peep show, then you’re going to have to pay me more,’ I tell him as I quickly settle on an impossible price in my head.  ‘…Double what you’re giving me now, at the very least.’

He sniffs and appears to think about it for a minute.  ‘…Two whole pounds,’ he drawls.  And then – after a beat – adds quietly, ‘What?  Is daddy not giving you a big enough allowance already?’

‘Fuck you, Harry,’ I spit as I try and shove past him into the corridor – and he _lets_ me.

He lets me because he knows that Flynn won’t.  His hired muscle – the prizewinning bare-knuckle boxer from Kilkelly – kicks off the wall and stands tall – blocking my path.  He drops his cigarette to the floorboards and gently crushes it out with one of his weather-beaten boots.

I breathe out through my nose as I look up at him.  I won’t be stomped out. 

‘We both know you don’t need the money, princess,’ Harry says, stepping up behind me.

I spin, ‘You know _nothing_ about–’

He raises his voice – just slightly, just enough.  ‘So, I’m wondering _why_ – why do it?’ he says, shrugging his shoulders.  ‘…I’ve thought about it a lot, you know – keeps me awake most nights – and guess what?  I’ve come at it from every single angle and the only reason I can think of – for why it is that you do this – is that you do it because you _like_ it.’

I look away.

‘You get a kick out of stripping down and letting men look at you,’ his says, narrowing his black eyes at me.  ‘…Don’t you?’

If only it were just that, I think to myself as I stare at the floorboards and count the scuffs and splinters.  If only I were that free.

He nods, staring down his nose at me.  ‘Yeah,’ he whispers.

I scoff and shake my head.  ‘You don’t know–’

‘I know _everything_!’ he explodes, shoving his finger in my face, and for just a second he reminds me of my father – my cruel and capricious father.  But, unlike my father, he clenches his fist and is quickly able to reign in that anger.  ‘I know everything there is to know about you,’ he insists softly.  ‘And unless you want to make the front page of The Illustrated News – and the whole world to see you for what you really are – then you’ll do _exactly_ what I tell you to.’

I release a shaky breath.

‘Got it?’

I look up and frown, then nod once.

‘…Good,’ he replies as he reaches into his pocket and takes out a fist full of coins.  He counts out three shillings and six pence, and then takes my hand and drops them into the palm of it.  ‘Get home safe,’ he whispers, before he nods at Flynn and then takes off down the corridor.

I catch Flynn’s gaze as he brushes past – a brief glance before he fixes his frown and stares along the broken bridge of his nose.  I close my fingers around the coins, then head down the corridor in the opposite direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our girl's only just getting started, don't worry. Stay tuned.

**Author's Note:**

> Stay tuned, reader.


End file.
